Getting to Know You
by nightmareXdoll22
Summary: After a case, Sherlock starts showing John a side of himself noone thought existed. :D Rated M for smut, mild violence and some foul language. Please R&R!  CURRENTLY ON HIATUS
1. Chapter 1

**I'd like to thank my beta, irishais, who has been a MAJOR help. Without her, this wouldn't have gotten this far! Much much praise to her for her editing skills and confidence boosting. Also, please read and review! Please, please, please! I cannot stress that enough. **

**Disclaimer: I, sadly, do not own any of the characters from the BBC's Sherlock. I wish I did. But I'm just not that lucky. LOL**

Sherlock paced round the flat, muttering and kicking away the books and papers that lay in his path. As John looked up from his place in the armchair, he shook his head at his very odd, yet brilliant, flatmate. The doctor had always been somewhat amused by Sherlock's behaviours. The pacing, the experiments, and the frozen body parts stored beside the waffles in their freezer; these were all just little things that made the detective unusually interesting. John returned to writing in his blog, making notes about the case at hand. It was another 'locked door mystery' and this one had even the consulting detective perplexed. John saved his writings, snapped shut his laptop and rose from his seat, stretching and groaning slightly.

"I'm off to bed, Sherlock. Will there be anything left of the flat in the morning, or should I expect to wake in a pile of rubble?" His madman of a roommate simply grunted and waved a hand at him. "Right. Well, good night then," he said, and walked off to his room, wondering if the living room would be still be in one piece come morning.

"John! Let's go. I've got it!" Sherlock called from the kitchen. "You awake?" He paused for approximately half a second. "Fine, I'll go it alone then." As he reached to take his overcoat from the hook by the door, a very tired and disheveled John Watson appeared.

"What time is it?" John yawned and stooped to tie his shoes, ducking to the side as Sherlock flung the door wide open and raced down the steps, taking them two by two.

"Time to catch a killer, John. I can't believe I missed it! Oh, so clever… How clever you are…" Sherlock said as he rushed past Mrs. Hudson.

"Oh… Well, good. At least the pacing is over with," John said to himself as he ran down the steps and finally made his way out onto the street, catching up with Sherlock just as a cab pulled up in front of them.

"Scotland Yard," he told the cabbie and they were off. John watched his colleague, whose face was almost showing a hint of joy, but as quickly as it came, the expression was gone; Sherlock's face settled back into that uncaring expression John knew so well.

It was drizzling, and rather chilly as they rode through town to meet with Lestrade, a scenario typical of another day in the life of John Watson- wake up at some strange hour to the sound of Sherlock either blowing up the microwave or calling for him to come along.

He preferred when his friend blew up the microwave, since that was not nearly as important to him as sleeping. The nightmares had started but a week after his discharge, and although it had been months since he had returned from the war, the images still haunted him. John's nights were spent tossing and turning violently as images of his fellow soldiers flashed in his mind. So many of them, dead or dying, missing limbs, bleeding out too fast- he had tried so hard to save them, but no man can save everyone. Not even him. What he saw over there had changed him forever.

John stared blankly out the window, thinking about the nightmare he'd had just hours before, when the cab jerked to a halt. Blinking, he realized they had arrived at their destination and Sherlock was rushing towards the building, leaving him to pay the fare. John pulled his wallet out and paid the cabbie, then took up his cane and limped away from the cab and into the foyer of Scotland Yard. He had a feeling that this was going to be a long day; he could feel it in his bones, and it wasn't just the arthritis set on by his combat injuries. Catching a glimpse of Sherlock's coattails rounding the corner towards Lestrade's office, he tried to hurry a bit so not to miss out on whatever revelation the other man had this morning.

It was just such a troubling case. The door was bolted from the inside, windows locked up tightly as well, and no sign that anyone else was in the room. However, thanks to Sherlock's keen eye and deductive reasoning, they had determined that the woman had not killed herself. At first glance, it appeared she had overdosed on some kind of drug, perhaps sleeping pills. The empty prescription bottle on the table next to a half-empty glass of Dom Perignon added to the suspicion of suicide in everyone's minds. Except Sherlock's. He had noticed that the prescription had been filled a month and a half ago, calling for thirty pills, which meant that she would have run out two weeks ago, which in turn meant that the bottle had been empty for some time to begin with. The woman was a defense attorney, meaning she would have needed a pill each night, since most defense attorneys suffer from some form of sleeping disorder. But, if she hadn't overdosed herself, and was locked in from the inside, how did she die? John sat on the leather sofa, listening to Lestrade and Sherlock go over his new theory as to what happened.

"The whole room is sealed up like a vault, correct?" Sherlock's voice was mocking.

"Yes. What are you getting at here, Detective?" Lestrade glanced at the clock impatiently, waiting for an answer.

"What I'm getting at, Inspector, is this was most obvious, and your crack team of _real_ law officers should have spotted it at the start! Look, here. This photo. See that on the floor, off to the left a bit?" Sherlock held the photo up, almost touching it to the Inspector's nose and pointing to a floor vent. "That is how the killer got in. The vent. He came up through from the flat below, obviously. Its brilliant!"

John and Lestrade shared a bewildered look before John spoke up. "Well, Holmes. That would make our killer, what? A skeleton? Think about this. No one could fit in that ventilation shaft. Its just not possible." John smirked, knowing he was about to get put in his place. He didn't mind though. It was an everyday thing when working with Sherlock, and he had almost begun to enjoy it.

"Ah, very good, John. But wrong again. You see, I never said the killer was a person, did I? No. Simply that the killer came in through the vent. Come on, John. I have something I need to do." And with that, Sherlock flicked the photo into the air, spun about on his heel, and was gone again. John quickly got to his feet, glancing at Lestrade, who had already grabbed his coat and was heading for the door. He wasn't about to let a man such as Sherlock go interrogating anyone by himself. Last time he'd allowed that, the suspect in question spent four months regaining the use of his right shoulder.

_No, _he thought, _Won't make that mistake again. Already lost my marriage. Not about to lose my job too. Damn you, Sherlock._

–

Watson waited in the hallway, while Lestrade and Sherlock went over the crime scene again. He stooped down beside the floor vent, slipping on a pair of latex gloves. Curiously, touched the slats of the vent, then rubbed his fingertips together. Sniffing the somewhat oily residue on the glove, Sherlock's eyes widened and he stood suddenly, nearly knocking down Lestrade who was hovering about his shoulder. As the dark haired detective turned to face the Inspector, he held his gloved hand in front of Lestrade's face and waved it a bit.

"Have a sniff," he told Lestrade who was now leaning back to avoid contact with the strange substance just under his nose.

"You're mad." He replied, pushing Sherlock's hand away in disgust. "That is revolting, and if you think for one second I would smell something that I have not yet ident-"

"Formaldehyde. It's residue from formaldehyde. Why would I lie to you about that? Should something happen to you, Inspector, I will not be compensated for my time, and that would be a waste of effort and intelligence on my part." He reached out again, and this time Lestrade took a rather tentative whiff, as though he was beginning to trust the self-diagnosed sociopath. After what seemed ages, Sherlock backed away and removed the gloves. He began looking about the room again, silently going over all of the facts of the case. Without warning, Sherlock took off and dashed down the stairs, his associates failing to keep step. Once they reached the door of the lower flat, Lestrade shot a glance at Sherlock.

"Let's not have a repeat of the Kensington Square double, right?"

"You have my word." As he reached up to press the buzzer on the wall, an odd scent wafted out from under the front door. He crouched down and stuck his nose by the floor, dark curls falling over his eyes. It was only when he felt a change in the atmosphere of the hallway that Sherlock realized the door had been opened, and as he looked up he found that his possible suspect was staring down as him with a look of astonishment. His eyes darted about, taking in every bit of information that he could about this person. Pink bedroom slippers, caked with what appeared to be gravy, cigarette ashes and what looked to be a bit of vomit. Matching pink dressing gown, frayed at the bottom and stained with nail polish, green hair dye and red wine. From this he deduced that the woman, presumably the killer, was single, early twenties, enjoyed drinking, smoking and punk rock music. She was into the club scene, and hated cleaning. Not a very good cook, considering how many times it appeared she'd spilled gravy on her feet, and held a job that hardly paid, as her dressing gown was in a state of disrepair and hadn't been replaced.

Sherlock jumped to his feet, and briefly introduced himself before slipping past the woman, striding over to the vent on the wall. He looked up and turned sideways, making sure he was at the corresponding vent to the one in the flat above. Under the vent, there was a small scrape mark on the wall and dents to the carpet which seemed to have been made by a table. He sniffed the wall, and whipped around, motioning to Lestrade who was fending off the woman's attacks as he made his way across the lounge.

"Here we go. Got you now, haven't I?" Sherlock pointed to the wall just below the vent. As Lestrade leaned in, he could smell the formaldehyde again.

"Well. I believe you're right."

"I'm always right. That's beyond the point. You have your killer, and I did my part. If you don't mind, there's something else I must attend to." And with that, Sherlock left the Inspector in the flat. Lestrade watched him go, bewildered, yet thankful, that this had gone better than he'd hoped.

"At least everyone's conscious. Excuse me, miss. May I have a word with you?"

While Lestrade handcuffed the young woman, Watson limped down the stairs and out to the sidewalk.

"Where now, Sherlock?" he asked, pulling his jacket around him tightly. The wind had picked up and it was raining steadily. All he wanted now was to go back to 221B Baker Street and put on some tea.

"Home. I would love a cup of tea 'bout now, wouldn't you John?" Flagging down a cab, Sherlock patted his flatmate on the shoulder and stepped down off the curb.

"How do you- Never mind." John smiled and shook his head, knowing that no explanation would suit him. He climbed into the waiting cab, and was thankful for his friend's unusual ability to know just what he was thinking. Sometimes, he thought Sherlock knew what he wanted long before he knew it himself. The cab slowed in front of the flat and Sherlock leaned forward to pay the man. They slid out of the car, quietly making their way upstairs. As John went to the kitchen and put the kettle on, Sherlock sat down on the sofa and turned on the TV.

"Ah. Wallace and Gromit. Almost feel bad for that poor mutt."

"You what?" John squeaked, shocked by Sherlock's statement."

"Gromit. The clay dog. Almost feel bad for him."

"Feel?"

"Almost. If I were capable of feeling to begin with, I would surely feel bad for Gromit.

Always in some sticky mess. Went and got himself caught this time."

"Oh, right. Almost. Uh, which one is it?"

"The one with the Were-Rabbit. Here, come watch." Sherlock scooted over as John carried in their tea, making space for him to have a seat on the sofa. John sat quietly, glancing over at Sherlock and sipping at his tea. He was amazed by this man. It was so rare to see him enjoy anything other than a good murder case, that John had almost forgotten this little-known side of his companion. _Almost. _He thought. _Almost feel... Almost forgot... Almost happy._ They both sank into the cushions, Sherlock staring intently at the TV and John laughing at the antics of the silly animated man and his pet as he drifted off to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Sorry this took so long to get posted. My lovely beta, irishais, has been super busy the past week or so and I'm very proud of her! She spoke at AnimeUSA this past weekend, so a round of applause to her! :) Anyways, I edited this myself, which may or may not be a good thing. I just couldn't take waiting any longer. (I have a serious lack of patience unfortunately.) So, please R&R. I need feedback! No feedback means no new chapters! :P **

**Disclaimer: I don't own BBC's Sherlock, I just like to play with their characters. :P Don't sue me.**

Sherlock sat in the armchair, fingers folded together beneath his chin while he watched John sleep. It was nearly eight in the morning, but he couldn't bring himself to wake the doctor. He had noticed how John tossed and turned on the sofa the night before, and at times it sounded like he was crying. The man needed a good lay in. Waiting patiently, he thought about John, who he had only met a few months earlier. An army doctor, with a psychosomatic limp and flashbacks. The man who he had read like a book on their first meeting, and two days later was moved into the spare bedroom. The only living being in the whole of London that Sherlock would call his friend. Sherlock stretched his long legs out in front of him, then stood up and walked out to the kitchen. He thought about putting the kettle on, but decided instead to go out for take-away. It would be a nice treat after the case he'd just solved, and he was sure John would appreciate it. He wrapped his scarf around his neck, threw on his coat and left for the deli.

* * *

John rubbed his eyes with his fists, and extended his arms out over his head. He sat up slowly, his back aching from spending the night on the sofa. Pushing the throw blanket off of him, he noticed the scent of bacon, tea and eggs coming from the kitchen. He walked across the lounge, wincing at the pain in his hips. _Too old for this now, John. Should have just gone to bed. _As he peered around the corner, he was amazed by the scene unfolding before him. Sherlock had made tea, and it appeared he had gone out to fetch breakfast for the both of them. Fresh made scrambled eggs and bacon sandwiches were setting on the tray, and two hot cups of tea sat beside it. Sherlock was hunched over at the fridge, getting out the milk for John's tea. It was the strangest thing he'd seen in a while. More so than the day he came home and opened the fridge to find a severed head aside the milk, or the time there was a jar of eyeballs in the microwave when Lestrade's men came to annoy the consulting detective with a 'drugs bust'. John crept back to the sofa, and laid back down under the throw, hoping he'd wake up soon from what he told himself was just a dream. Unfortunately, just as he shut his eyes, the clinking of dishes and china on a tea tray made it clear he wasn't dreaming, and in fact, he was being nudged and told breakfast was ready.

"John.. John. Breakfast is here. Come on, time to get up and eat." Sherlock perched himself on the back of the armchair, feet resting on the seat as he took a drink of his tea. Immediately, he set it back down and made a sour face. "Umm.. John. Are you wanting your tea?"

"Yes, Sherlock. I am." John sat up and reached for his cup, then seeing the look Sherlock was giving him, he retracted his hand and stood up. "I'll make a fresh pot. What self-respecting bloke can't make a bloody pot of tea? Really, Sherlock. Its not terribly difficult, you know." Shaking his head, he went to the kitchen and after what seemed only minutes, reappeared with two new cups, steaming hot and smelling wonderful.

"Well. Thanks. Maybe someday, you could, you know.. Teach me?" Sherlock added his sugar and sipped it carefully, trying not to burn his lips.

"Teach you? I suppose that would be fine. Are you feeling alright today?"

"Quite. Have you tried the eggs? Made those fresh too. The bacon sandwiches I went out after though. Never been too keen on making bacon. Too much spitting involved on the bacon's part. That can get rather dangerous, you know, 'specially if you've no shirt on."

" Mmm.. Yes, eggs are quite good. Oh, wait. A shell." John picked the bit of shell from his eggs and set it on the edge of the plate. Sherlock shrugged and sat forward to have a bite of his bacon. He knew that his behaviour was fully out of character for a man of his nature, but he aimed to make John happy and he had done his research. The article he'd read stated that showing someone you care about them is a perfectly rational way to go about making a person happy. He cared about John, and it surprised him that he had bonded with him at all. It was his intention to give John the best friendship he could manage. Knowing he had a friend made him truly happy, for the first time in many, many years.

* * *

John stood under the hot water of the shower, thinking about Sherlock's attitude that morning. He was used to the brilliant yet disturbed and uncaring side of him, not the tea-making, breakfast-fetching and considerate part of the peculiar sleuth. And Sherlock was not one to ask to be taught something so 'trivial' as how to make a proper cup of tea. It was those things that he said cluttered the mind. _Ordinary people fill their heads with all kinds of rubbish... All that matters to me, is the work. Without that, my brain rots. _Sherlock's words were as clear as though he'd said it just yesterday. And perhaps to a man of such intelligence, it was all just rubbish. How the solar system works, what real love is, how to make tea. But now he wanted to know, and if he was wanting to learn to make tea, what else was he suddenly curious about? The thought made the hairs on John's neck stand on end. _Please, God.. Don't let him start wondering about sex. Not around me, at least. Let him use Anderson for that experiment_. John rinsed the shampoo from his hair and shut off the water. He reached out around the curtain for his towel which was not where he'd left it.

"Bloody hell." He peeked out of the shower and found Sherlock standing in front of him, holding out the bath towel. "Sherlock! What in god's name are you doing in here?" He'd had enough now. Making breakfast and acting like, well, a normal man was one thing. But hanging about in the bathroom as though it was something all flatmates did, well that was just too far. It was an invasion of his space and his privacy, and John was not going to take that from anyone. After being in the Army and not having any privacy whatsoever for months, he cherished every shower that he could take in peace and quiet, without any other men around, or gunfire but a few kilometers away.

"I was passing by and the door had come ajar. I believe it needs a new latch, I'll have to inform Mrs Hudson. I saw your towel had fallen from the rack, and decided I'd get it for you. When I was picking it off the floor, you turned the shower off so I waited to hand it to you instead. Is that not alright, John?"

"I suppose you were only trying to help. But next time, don't stand there like some.. gaping lunatic, okay?"

"Right. Sorry. I'll be in the lounge. Lestrade sent a text. Wants us to meet him for lunch in half an hour."

"Fine. I'll be out shortly." John watched as his friend left the bathroom and pulled the door shut behind him. He sighed and dried off quickly, fearing that the door may swing open again at any moment. Once dressed, he went out to the lounge to find Sherlock sitting at the desk. "Is that my laptop?"

"Yes."

"I just changed the password on Friday! How do you do that?"

"You made it too easy. You changed your password just after you had an ice cream with that woman. I knew you would have a brain freeze, as you always eat far too quickly, and being a man of medicine and fair intelligence, you would use the proper terminology. Sphenopalatine gangleoneuralgia. Easy."

John was amazed that Sherlock even knew the proper term for a brain freeze. _The man can't make a cup of tea to save his life.. but he knows THAT? _It was a stupid thought, he reasoned. Sherlock had most likely looked it up once he realized it had to be related to a brain freeze. _How did he know it was about a brain freeze? I would have gone with butterscotch. He knows that's my favourite. _

"I knew better that to go with butterscotch, John. That would have been far too predictable, even for you, and anyone who knows you well could have guessed it." Sherlock shut the laptop and stepped up and over the stack of medical journals and dictionaries beside the desk. He motioned for John to follow as he took his coat and scarf from the hook and walked out to the stairs.

"So where are we meeting Lestrade?"

"Phoenix Palace. Said he wants to discuss the last case over lunch."

"Oh. At least its nearby. Might be able to get back in time for my programmes." As they walked down Baker Street, John got the feeling they were being watched. He looked around and glanced back over his shoulder, but saw no one who seemed a threat. _Probably just Mycroft again, keeping tabs on his brother, _he assured himself. That was nothing out of the ordinary. Not a day passed that he didn't send a black car past to 'check up' on Sherlock. He often thought to ask how Mycroft Holmes knew where he and Sherlock were every second of the day and night, but knew he'd just end up with more questions than answers. They rounded the corner onto Glentworth Street and John saw Lestrade standing outside the Phoenix Palace, smoking a cigarette. As they approached, he put it out and nodded to them.

"Hello Inspector. See you've given up on the patches." Sherlock opened the door and stepped inside the Chinese restaurant. "Mmm.. Smells lovely."

"Yes. Well. How are the patches treating you these days?"

"Oh, quite well." Sherlock slid his sleeve up to reveal four nicotine patches affixed to his forearm. "I've adopted a fourth."

John shook his head. "What happened to the three patch problem?"

"It became a four patch problem since Mrs Hudson hid my skull again. She's getting very good at that game. Been two days already and I've not yet determined where she's put it this time. Quite the mystery." The three men sat down at a corner booth, just as a waitress approached with menus.

"Speaking of mysteries, Sherlock, I have to ask you something." Lestrade pointed to the sweet and sour pork, then handed the menu back to the waitress. Sherlock looked up and ordered shrimp fried rice, then turned back to Lestrade.

"The house that the flats are in, its rather old, so I knew the heating system would likely connect throughout the building. That in mind, it became apparent that the only method one could use to kill someone in a locked room in that flat would be through the vents. However, no adult could fit in said vents, meaning the killer had to have used another method to commit the murder. I noticed the faint smell of formaldehyde near the body, which led me to the vent. Upon seeing the downstairs neighbour, I knew that she was not the type to get on well with the victim, as the victim had a sleeping disorder and our killer is a young punk rock fan. Meaning, there must have been several complaints to the landlord about the downstairs neighbour and her social habits. Therefore, to escape the impending eviction, she waited until night, then heated formaldehyde to just above its boiling point on a hot plate beneath the vent, thus allowing the gas from the chemical to seep into the room above, which was conveniently the victim's bedroom. The pill bottle on the table was nothing more than coincidence. She most likely left it there after refilling the prescription and forgot all about it."

Lestrade stared at Sherlock, and opened his mouth to speak, just as their food arrived. The delicious scent of sweet and sour pork made him forget what he was going to say, so he decided to just savor the meal at hand. John had chosen General Tso's chicken and egg drop soup, and was already starting to dig into it. Sherlock was picking the shrimp out of his dish and stacking them neatly on the edge of his plate, as though they were a small audience about to witness the fate that would befall their rice and vegetable comrades. He had a strange habit of doing so, and Lestrade shuddered at the thought. _One day, we're going to be standin' round a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one that put it there... He's a psychopath. Psychopaths get bored. _Sergeant Donovan's voice echoed what she'd told Dr. Watson, but he shook it off and returned to his meal.

After lunch, and the brief conversation with Lestrade, John and Sherlock made their way back home. They were stuffed, and John was impressed by how much his skinny companion could eat. He'd polished off a full plate of shrimp fried rice, saving the shrimp for last as they were his favourite part, then two cups of Oolong tea and a bowl of mixed fruit slices. He knew Sherlock could eat rather well when not on a case, but he wasn't used to witnessing it first hand. Most days, the detective refused to eat a bite, claiming the digestive process hindered his ability to think properly by diverting energy away from the mind and to the digestive system. But after solving a case, he would sometimes indulge himself and have a good meal, most often take-away. John walked into the flat, set down on the sofa and turned on the TV. He was hoping to catch Eastenders, but it was almost over. Settling for a movie, he looked through his DVD collection, and chose the movie 'From Hell'. It was somewhat corny, but a damn good film all the same. Sherlock curled up on the armchair, knees tucked to his chest as the movie started playing.

"Ah. Jack the Ripper. Good choice. You know, I've solved that one already. And it wasn't some Freemason like this film suggests. It was the coroner's assistant. Bloke was a full on psychopath, and delighted in seeing his handiwork come into the morgue. When he died from tuberculosis, the murders stopped. Also, the last one was far too sloppy, and couldn't have been done by a man in good physical health."

"Sherlock, I really don't know if that was impressive or disturbing. So, how bout you just shut up and turn off the light?"

* * *

It was just past midnight when John woke suddenly to find he was being carried into his room like a overgrown baby. He looked up, and saw Sherlock's dark eyes and brown curls. He was being carried to bed by Sherlock, and it was so unreal he didn't know what to think or say.

"Um. Sherlock?"

"Yes John?" Sherlock gently set him on the bed, then stepped back.

"What was that for?"

"Well, I noticed you were having pain in your hip this morning after last night sleeping on the sofa. So, after the movie, I let you sleep a few hours then decided to carry you in here. Let you sleep the rest of the night in your bed, perhaps avoid the pain tomorrow morning." He leaned against the wardrobe and folded his arms across his chest in defense of his actions.

"Oh. Right. Well, um, thank you. Get some sleep." John laid down and pulled the blanket up to his chin as he turned his back to Sherlock.

"John?"

"Yes, Sherlock."

"Would you like me to stay, you know. In case you have another one of those nightmares?"

"What? Uh. No, thanks. I'll be fine. Good night."

"Ok. Um, John?" he whispered again.

"What now?" John sighed and peeked over his shoulder.

"You're my friend, right? I.. erm... I want you to know I.. I care, ok? Good night." Sherlock walked out of the room and slammed the door behind him in frustration. "What the hell was I thinking? I'm not his friend. He doesn't think I can be a friend. No one does. I need my skull, damn it." He flung open the door to the flat and rushed downstairs. "Mrs Hudson!" he bellowed, "Give back my bloody skull! I need to think!"

* * *

**Alright folks. You know what to do. Press the button and let me a note. Please? :(**


	3. Chapter 3

**Ok, folks. Here's chapter three. Its shorter than the other two, so I apologize for that, but I wanted to end this chapter in a particular way. Anyways, I ask that you please R&R, as always. And more kudos to my gorgeous beta, irishais, who gave me the courage to keep going with this. I actually hate my writing like, 90% of the time. So her praise and encouragement is the only reason I'm posting. Well, that and the rush when I get reviews! :)**

**And as always, I don't own BBC's Sherlock or any of the characters. I just like to play with them. xoxo**

* * *

Mrs Hudson pulled her housecoat tightly around her as she opened the door to her flat, dashing out to hush Sherlock, who was hollering wildly about his skull. "Hush up now! Its past midnight, Sherlock. Can't this wait?" She ushered him into her kitchen and sat at the table while he paced back and forth.

"My skull, Mrs Hudson. I need my skull. It helps me think and I've far more thinking to do tonight than you've done in the past month!" He pulled at his hair and tilted his head back, letting out a low, angry growl.

"That hideous thing? Dear.. Its.. well.. Gone, I'm afraid." she said, lowering her gaze to her feet.

"What? Gone? How is it gone, Mrs Hudson? Oh, please, do tell." Sherlock slammed his hands down on the table, and looked the elderly landlady in the eye, waiting for her response.

"Well, there was this fire. In my kitchen. And I had hidden the skull in the cupboard over the stove, and it sort of.. Caught. Once the fire was out, I saw it was blackened and had cracked rather badly. So, I umm.. Put it out in the bin. I'll find you a new one, dear. I promise." she gave a weak smile, and prayed silently to herself that the madman wouldn't lose it altogether right then.

"Well.. have fun trying to find me a NEW SKULL, Mrs Hudson! How dare you... Now I won't be able to think this through. Damn you!"

"Well, if it helps dear, you can talk to me. You know, like you did the skull. I'll keep it all to myself, I swear it."

"No, no. You won't do. Damn. How could you do this? Damn it all to hell!" The furious detective left the flat and went back up to his own, stomping the whole way like a child throwing a fit. As he turned to slam the door, he remembered that John was asleep, and caught himself in time so not to wake him. Without hesitation, Sherlock decided that the only thing he could do in this situation was something he'd never attempted before. He walked towards John's room, and took a deep breath. _I can do this. Its simple. Just do whatever feels... normal. Whatever that is, exactly. And this feels like normal, right? Bloody hell.. What if he hates me for this? I have to just do it... Just get on with it, Sherlock. Great... Arguing with myself.. Damn you, Mrs Hudson. Ok.. Here goes everything. _Sherlock pushed open the door and slipped in silently. As he crossed the room to John's bed, he had to stop himself from turning around and running back out to the safety of the sofa. Gently, he sat down on the edge of the mattress, and slipped the covers back. He sat beside the sleeping man, his back against the headboard and blanket tucked around his waist. Sherlock reached down and softly brushed John's hair back with his long, slender fingers. _He's going to wake up and kill me, _ he thought. _He's going to kill me, or move out, or... why am I so worried? He's not going to go anywhere. I say dangerous, and he comes running. He loves living with me, and the adventures we have. This is normal. I'm just a concerned friend. That's all. _His thoughts were interrupted by John moving about, turning over in his sleep and mumbling something about not dying. Sherlock slowly pulled his friend against his side, wrapping his arms round him tightly until the whimpering stopped. "There now, John. Its just a bad dream. I'm here." He whispered. "I'm right here."

"Sherlock?" John said sleepily.

"Yes. Its alright, John. You're having a nightmare. Just relax."

"The spaghetti, Sherlock. Its on Lestrade again... hmm... never.. mm." John's voice trailed off, and Sherlock realized the man was talking in his sleep.

"John.." he said softly, so not to wake him.

"Hmm?"

"You're a good friend. You know that?"

"Mm-hmm.."

"John.. I love you. As a friend."

"Mm-hmm.. love you, Sherlock." As Sherlock let John's words soak in, he closed his eyes and sank down alongside him. Just as he was falling asleep, the detective felt something warm and soft press against his forehead, and he smiled to himself, knowing he'd made a good choice, following his feelings for the first time.

* * *

John slowly opened his eyes. It was morning, and he was in his own bed, safe and warm. And that dream he'd had, after the nightmare stopped, it felt so real. As he crept out to the kitchen, he tried to avoid any squeaky floorboards that would alert Sherlock to his presence. It was going to be a very strange day, and John could feel it already. Filling the kettle and setting it back on the cooker, he tried to remember the whole dream, but bits still evaded him. _Lestrade was wearing spaghetti... Sherlock said something.. What was it? Something about friends. We're friends, I think it was. Yeah... _He was so deep in thought, he never heard Sherlock approaching, and was only pulled back to reality by the long, skinny arms wrapping around him.

"Morning, John." Sherlock's husky voice sent a sudden chill down his spine.

"Um. Yes. Sherlock? Can you... let go please?" John choked out as Sherlock gave him a tight squeeze.

"Oh. Sorry. Here, let me get that.." Sherlock released John just as the kettle began to whistle. He reached over and took it from the cooker, just as John turned about to face him. John's shoulder clipped the spout of the kettle, tipping it and send hot water everywhere. Mostly, on Sherlock. "Ow. Ow. Ouch. John? Owww." Sherlock bit his lip, holding back the urge to scream as the water burned his arm, legs and feet.

"Oh god! Sherlock, get to the bathroom NOW!" John was suddenly in doctor mode, and ordering Sherlock into the bathroom. "I'll grab the kit. Get moving. This can't be good." John rushed to his room and took down his first aid kit from the shelf, ran back to the bathroom and nudged Sherlock until he was sitting on the side of the tub. "I am so sorry, Sherlock. Oh god. Here, let me help you." The doctor took to removing Sherlock's trousers, careful not to upset the burns on his shins and feet. "While I'm doing this, turn on the cold water and hold your arm underneath. This is probably going to sting a lot. God, Sherlock. I'm so terribly sorry."

"Its alright, John. An accident, that's all. I still love you."

"You what?"

"I said I still love you. Like a friend. Its ok." Sherlock sat there, arm under the water, John applying burn cream to his feet and legs, with only his housecoat and boxers on.

"Right. Well, I suppose I love you too. Here. Put some cream on that arm, then wrap it with this." John looked up at the handsome detective, and handed him gauze and a small jar. _That wasn't some dream. That was real. He was there, last night and … Oh god.. did I? No.. that had to be a dream. But.. Maybe... _John looked up at Sherlock again, and smiled softly before quickly looking away. _Damn.. I think I'm blushing.. Why am I doing that? Quit smiling you idiot.. Focus.. Focus! What the bloody hell is going on? Did I... _"Did I really kiss him?" he said suddenly, not realizing it until the words were already out.

"Yes, John. But only on the forehead. Its alright. We're friends." Sherlock smiled and continued wrapping the gauze around his arm.

"That's not what friends do, Sherlock. You.. Have no perception of what friendship is, so how can you say its OK cause we're friends? Men don't kiss other men on the forehead. Its... not right."

"Oh, come now John. Really. The military has instilled all these homophobic beliefs in your little brain, and its sickening. We aren't gay, John. We're just two men who care about each other."

"So, if I'm understanding this.. we're two men who live together, care about each other and kiss on the forehead in bed? Do you know how that would look to anyone else? They'd say WE'RE GAY, Sherlock!" he exclaimed.

"So? Let them talk. Its none of their business anyway, John. May I have my pants, please?" Sherlock reached down to take them, just as there was a tap on the bathroom door.

"Erm.. Sherlock.. John. Its Lestrade.. Just popped in to talk about a case. I could come back later, since clearly from the sounds of it you're.. rather.. busy."

John glared at Sherlock who stepped over him to the door and opened it, trousers on but undone. "No. We're through in there. What have you got for us now?" He looked back at John and gave a fake grin, then followed Lestrade into the lounge.

"I am not gay.. I am not gay. Sherlock is just doing some... experiment. Yeah.. Probably something to do with the human psyche.. That's all.. Damn it. Am I gay?" he said to himself as he packed up the kit and took it back to his room.

* * *

"Boring." Sherlock was stretched across the sofa, plucking gently at the strings of his violin, while Lestrade paced about explaining the case to him.

"How is it boring?"

"Its not that interesting. Hence, BORING!" Sherlock sat up and put the violin down on the coffee table. "She hired a hit. Obviously."

"There.. But.. How?"

"You say the car was abandoned at the airport, and his body was found at a tube station. There was a single gunshot wound, and the wife was crying and wailing like a banshee when you went to speak with her. That show of 'grief ' means one of two things. She was faking to throw you off her trail, or she genuinely loved him. From the photos, I can see it was the former of the two. Look at his tie. See the bright pink stain? He was cheating. The wife found out and most likely followed him to confirm her suspicions. Check the traffic cams around his office, home and secretary's home. You'll probably find his car, followed by her car on more than one occasion. The assailant caught up with him at the airport, but was spotted and had to chase him onto the tube. That's how he ended up on that platform, thus solving the case. Now go question the wife again. I've other things to attend to here."

Lestrade blinked slowly, then gathered up his crime scene photos, and left without a word. He didn't feel up to sticking around, after what he'd heard when he arrived. _Wow... they're... but I didn't think Sherlock was interested in... and John, of all people.. Maybe I was hearing them wrong... no... bollocks. Now I have to worry bout a psychopath detective AND a gay doctor... What next? If Anderson turns out to be a drag queen... Lord help us all..._

* * *

**Ok. Now press the pretty little button and give me a reason to go on. Also, if you have any suggestions as to how you think things should go from here, I'd love to hear them. If you aren't comfy posting them as a review, you can always PM me. xoxo**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: And here begins the smuttiness. I apologize if it sucks. First time writing smut, so I'm still figuring out how to go about it. Also, a quick note to any readers from the UK. I am trying soooo hard not to butcher the use of 'Brit slang' as its referred to here, so if you spot anything that needs correcting, please let me know. I would forever be in your debt! Ok, so anyways, here's chapter 4. Hope its not too crappy. And as always, please R&R! It keeps the creative juices flowing. :)**

**Disclaimer: You know the deal. I don't own anything. Also, lyrics cited in this chapter are from 'Thanks for the Memories' by Fall Out Boy. I know, why the hell are they listening to THAT? Because I wanted them to, thats why. Now quit complaining and just read, damn it! 3**

* * *

"John? Are you alright?" Sherlock called as he opened the door to John's room. John lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling and completely ignoring Sherlock.

"Hmmph.." He folded his arms over his chest, and glanced at Sherlock.

"Come on John. I'm sorry, okay? I really am. But I doubt Lestrade is going to say anything to anyone. Please calm down?" He knelt down beside the bed, and gave John that sad puppy face again. The same one the doctor knew all too well from the times Sherlock was bored and had blown up their kitchen appliances, and the time Sherlock insisted on keeping a corpse in the airing cupboard for some sort of study. It was pitiful, and John couldn't resist.

"Fine. Just, no more of the touchy-feely stuff. Ok? I really don't know what to make of all this yet." John sat up and scooted over to Sherlock. Placing his hand on the kneeling man's shoulder, John said softly, "I still love you, no matter what. Now quit making that face and let's go for take away." He smiled and patted Sherlock's wild curls before walking out of the room, letting his flatmate confused and excited by the bed.

* * *

"What's that dreadful noise?" Sherlock called across the lounge, covering his ears.

"Its an American band. Molly suggested it last time we were at Bart's. They're called Fall Out Boy. I think its rather interesting."

"Well, turn it down. A lot. Sounds like dying cats in heat." Sherlock shook his head, and flopped into the armchair. "Since you insist on melting my brain with that mess, mind telling me what's it called?"

"Uh.. Hold on." John reached over and grabbed a CD case from the desk. "Its called 'Sugar, We're Goin' Down'. I like it. Its different. And your violin is what dying cats sound like, for your information," he smiled and sat back on the sofa, tapping his toes to the music.

"What is he saying? Loaded gun complex? Really, John. This is.. just sad. He sounds like a wuss, and half of what he's saying makes no sense." The song ended, and Sherlock sighed with relief, but all too soon. Just as he relaxed, another song began.

_I'm gonna make you bend and break  
Say a prayer, but let the good times roll  
In case God doesn't show  
And I want these words to make things right  
But it's the wrongs that makes the words come to life  
Who does he think he is_

_One night and one more time  
Thanks for the memories  
Even though they weren't so great  
He tastes like you only sweeter_

"John. Whats this song? I kind of... Its good, I suppose. A little more up-beat than the last.. But not nearly as bad."

"Thanks for the memories, it is. I like it too." John motioned for Sherlock to come sit by him. As Sherlock stood, John could see his hand trembling. _He's nervous.. The infallible genius is nervous about sitting beside me.. That's.. odd. He's never been nervous like this before. Ok.. Make him comfortable.. _As Sherlock took a seat on the sofa, John reached over and gently pulled him in, so his head was resting on John's shoulder. "Look, Sherlock. This is all so new to me, and I want to make sure of something, you know, before we go getting hopes up of any sort."

"I understand completely. And we can go-" His words were cut off by John's lips pressing against his own, with a sudden force that startled the sociopath more than he thought possible. The kiss was warm, and felt amazing to Sherlock. After a few moments, John pulled back slowly, and gently bit at his own lip.

"Hmm.. Yes, I think I'm sure now." He leaned forward again, this time placing soft, electrifying kisses on Sherlock's throat and jaw, then nipping at his earlobe. The feel of Sherlock's body shaking slightly with each movement, and the sound of his ragged breathing made John's heart race with excitement. It was amazing and new and Sherlock hoped it would never stop.

"Mmm.. John.. Never felt.. so good.. don't stop.." Sherlock stammered, tipping his head back and running his long, delicate fingers through John's hair, tugging softly with each bite John placed on his neck. Sherlock lifted John's head and crashed his lips down onto his friend's, slowly slipping his tongue into John's mouth, causing him to startle.

"Sherlock.. hold on... wow.." John looked up into Sherlock's dark, lustful eyes. He had never felt this way for another man before, and it was so fast, but he loved it. They were tangled together on the sofa, Sherlock's legs draped over John's lap. It was new, fascinating and for John, intoxicating. He couldn't resist any longer, and climbed onto Sherlock's lap, holding his face in his palms, pressing his lips to Sherlock's greedily, letting their tongues touch and dance together in John's mouth. It felt as though the world stood still around them, as Sherlock made quick work of John's shirt, tossing it aside and running his soft hands over the tight muscles and sparse patch of hair on John's chest. Sherlock's head dipped down and he trailed light kisses down to John's stomach, stopping just above his navel. John arched backwards, groaning with pleasure as each kiss burned like fire, driving him wild and sending pulses of heat down to his cock.

"Mmm.. like that, eh?" Sherlock flashed him a wicked grin, then in one motion, laid John on the coffee table and sank to his knees. He resumed the trail of kisses at the navel, slowly brushing his lips over each hip and along the waist of John's pants. He nipped at the button, gently working it free with his teeth, then slipped them down, leaving but a thin layer of boxers between him and making John's whole world disappear.

"Sherlock.. Ahh.. Ohh.. wait... please.." John pleaded between breaths, as he sat up fighting Sherlock's silent protests. "I want to wait. I want it to be.. Not on the coffee table, and not tonight. Is that ok? I'm sorry."

"No, no. That's fine, John. I got a bit carried away is all. I shouldn't have pushed you." He placed a kiss on John's forehead, then sat back onto the sofa holding John's pants. "Missing something, love?" He smirked, holding them up, but just out of reach. John tried to grab them, but Sherlock stuffed them behind the sofa cushion. Finally, he straddled Sherlock, his nearly exposed cock pressing against the pale flesh of Sherlock's stomach as he took back his pants.

"Ha-ha, Sherlock. Very cute." John flung his pants over his shoulder and leaned down, kissing Sherlock on the cheek. "I'm off to bed. Should I expect to be woke by you using me as a teddy bear, or are you sleeping in your own bed tonight?" Sherlock smiled softly as John smirked and walked off to his room. Once inside, he tossed his pants to the side and flopped onto the bed, sighing as he closed his eyes and pulled the covers up to his chin. _I'm gay... This.. is going to take a lot of getting used to.. But if he keeps doing what he did just then.. I wouldn't mind getting used to that.. I need a good night's sleep and then it'll all be clearer.. yeah.. Sleep... _

* * *

Sherlock found himself once again drawn to John's room in the middle of the night, slipping into bed beside him, and snuggling together tightly. He was exhausted but couldn't stop thinking about this new level to their relationship. ..._Partner? No, no.. Think, damn it.. Boyfriend? Eh.. sounds so juvenile. Lover. Perhaps.. no, that just sounds like its an affair of some kind. Love.. Do I love him? I imagine this is what love must feel like... Must look into it.. in the morning..._

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**Ok, so I know you all want to just strangle me for the teaser smut right now. I look forward to your angry letters. Just remember, no more smut unless I get some feedback! Now press the pretty sparkling button and tell me what you thought! :D**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Ok, folks. I spent the evening writing this up just so I don't get strangled or thrown into a pool of lava with sharks wearing lazers on their heads.. Also, I want to give a quick shout out to a friend of mine who helped me with this one a bit. He's the one who got me to name the Skull what I did and my friend will herein be referred to as Gads, since he doesn't have a fanfic account that I know of. Also, this chapter contains smut. And as always, R&R please! XD**

* * *

It was half past nine the next morning when Sherlock opened his eyes and realized he had slept in John's bed again. He stretched quietly, then turned on his side and brushed his fingers along John's cheek. He leaned down and kissed him softly, then gently slid out of the bed and tip toed out to the kitchen. Mrs. Hudson was just placing a brown bag on the table, between the microscope and the jar of fingers as he turned the corner and rubbed his eyes. "Mrs. Hudson. Ehm.. Good morning. What have you got me?" He took the brown bag from the table and shook it lightly. "Doesn't rattle.. no sloshing sounds.. no sounds at all.. Hmm.."

"I'm sorry for poking about, but I didn't want to wake you boys... Peeked in your room and didn't see you, then heard both of you snoring in John's room.. Both of you were sleeping so peacefully." She blushed a little, then smiled and patted his arm. "If you won't be needing two rooms anymore, I could make do with a sewing room you know.." her voice trailed off as Sherlock shot her a look that told her she shouldn't stick around for tea today. "I'll be going now.." She turned and walked out of the flat, pulling the door closed behind her.

"What do we have here.. OH! JOHN!" Sherlock sat the bag on the table and ran shouting down the hallway. "JOHN! Wake up! Wonderful news!" Sherlock dashed into John's room, pouncing on the bed just as John sat up and yawned.

"What? What time is it? Do we have a case? Sherlock.. quit bouncing. You'll make me seasick. Ugh.." John looked over at the alarm clock and saw it was nearly ten. "Will you tell me what the bloody hell is going on?" He exclaimed, causing Sherlock to stop bouncing on the bed.

"Mrs Hudson, John. She's amazing! Come with me." He grabbed the other man's hand and pulled him from the bed, dragging him along to the kitchen. "On the table. The bag. Look!" His dark blue eyes gleamed with enthusiasm, as John reached past the jar of fingers and picked up the bag carefully as though it contained the plague. He opened the bag, and peeked inside, then pulled the oddly shaped object out and held it at eye level.

"Your skull! How.. morbid. But very nice of her.."

"Not my skull, but a new one! And he looks like he could have some wonderful ideas to share."

"Why don't you name this one, Sherlock. Maybe if 'he' has a name, she'll be less inclined to take off with him. Like a pet."

"He's not a PET! He's a colleague. But, you have a point.. What should we call him?"

"Umm.. Will? No.. Walter? Eh.. "

"I've got it!" he took the skull from John and held it up with both hands, dancing about with it. "Gromit! Like the clay doggie. He was the brains of all the jobs they did. This is a great day, Gromit. We must have a talk though..." He walked off chatting with the skull about not staring at company as its rude, and averting his 'eyes' if he and John should fool about on the sofa.

"Gromit... thats just lovely.. I'm going back to bed, damn it." John stalked off back to his room, muttering to himself as he crawled back under the covers and tried to fall asleep.

* * *

Sherlock put Gromit up on the mantle, then sat on the sofa and just stared for awhile. He got back up, turned Gromit slightly, then sat back down. Finally after turning Gromit for the fifth time, he sat again and looked up at the skull. Giving a satisfied smirk, he sank back into the cushions, and opened John's laptop and logged in, then signed into John's blog. He skimmed over John's latest posts, stopping at the last one. It was marked private so no one else would see it, meaning Sherlock would have to read it right away. He clicked the link for it, and rested his chin on his fingertips as he read it aloud to Gromit. "Here we go, Gromit. 'Had a rather odd day. Woke up after an odd dream about Sherlock and Lestrade. Went to make tea and accidentally spilled the hot kettle on Sherlock. Bandaged him up and Lestrade showed up. I'm quite sure he thinks I'm gay now. After he left, Sherlock apologized. He keeps doing that. I don't know what to make of it other than I think he wants more than friendship from me. Very odd. Went for take away which was very good. Then things got very strange. I really need to get this off my chest.. I think I might be falling for him. Sherlock. The strangest, most brilliant man I've ever met. A man I believed was not capable of love, and I think I love him. He's amazing. The way he speaks, thinks, walks about like a god. I see him and I just melt. Not sure what to think of this, but I might just be gay. More tomorrow.' ...Well, Gromit. That was.. rather personal. What do you suggest? Yes.. right. Dinner.. good, good.. cinema and then a good shag? Are you sure? Well.. Cinema sounds fine.. have to let the rest up to him..." Sherlock shut down the laptop, set it on the coffee table and walked over to Gromit. "Good thinking. I like you already." Sherlock pulled on his coat and wrapped his scarf around his neck then left the flat.

* * *

John woke up again around four in the afternoon. He walked to the bathroom and turned on the shower. Just as he pulled his shirt over his head, something on the back of the door caught his eye. He pulled the piece of paper from the knife holding it there, and scratched his head as he read it silently.

_John, _

_Going out tonight. Wear outfit in airing cupboard. _

_Had Mrs Hudson press it for you. Don't eat anything._

_Will be back sometime before 6._

_S.H._

"Huh.. He's dressing me now? Lovely.." John set the note on the sink and finished undressing then stepped under the hot water. He kept wondering what Sherlock had planned as he washed off and turned the shower off, wrapping his towel around him and making his was to the airing cupboard. He opened the door to find a dark red knit jumper, black trousers he hadn't worn in ages, and his dress shoes, nicely shined and tied. As he carried the outfit to his room, he heard the front door slam shut and Sherlock's hurried footsteps coming towards his door.

"John! You get my note? Come on, hurry up! Leaving in ten minutes." He walked to his own room, changed his shirt and jacket for a fresh set, then checked his hair in the mirror before dashing back to the sofa. Just as he sat down, John appeared wearing the outfit he'd picked and looking rather sharp. Sherlock stood up, walked over to John and tousled his hair slightly. "You look very nice, John. Ready to go?" He took John's arm and looped it through his own, then headed towards the door. Once they'd bundled up with coats, scarves and gloves, Sherlock opened the door and motioned for John to exit. Downstairs, a cab was passing and John hailed it just in time. They climbed in, and as Sherlock closed the door and slid over beside John, he leaned forward and told the cabbie where they were going. As the cab drove down the busy roads, John turned to Sherlock.

"Where are we going?"

"Dinner. Thought you might like to go out."

"Oh. Well. Thank you."

"Oh, and the cinema. New Harry Potter movie is showing tonight at nine. Sound alright? I know you like the books, since you have them all, you know?"

"Lovely. Thank you, Sherlock. Really. This is very nice." He leaned his head against Sherlock's shoulder and took his hand, squeezing it gently as he smiled up at him. Sherlock smiled back, then placed a quick kiss on John's forehead.

"Thank you, John. You've taught me something no one else ever could."

"What's that?"

"How to feel, John. How to care, and feel, and love. I love this, and I love you. And I don't care what anyone has to say about it, and I wish you didn't care either. Its nothing to be afraid of, John. I've been reading and they say people are far more accepting these days than ever before." He looked at John and as they passed under a streetlight, John saw the trail of a tear streaking down Sherlock's cheek. He reached up and wiped it away, just as it met the curve of his chin, then pushed his fingers into Sherlock's wild curls.

"I love you too. Please don't.. " John pressed a kiss to Sherlock's lips, suppressing his own sobs as he cradled the detective's face in his hands. As the cab pulled to a stop outside the restaurant, Sherlock silently paid the driver, and slid out of the cab behind John. As they stood out on the walkway, John reached over and took Sherlock's hand in his. "Let's eat, love. I'm starved!" He smiled, and leaned up on his toes, kissing Sherlock on the lips once more just before the door opened and Mycroft walked out of the restaurant, Anthea close behind, texting away on her Blackberry.

"John. Sherlock. How nice to see you again. How are you?" Mycroft shook John's hand formally, then nodded to his brother.

"Mycroft.." Sherlock hissed. "How's the diet?"

"Just fine. John, I see you're doing well." He glanced down at John's hand which was still tightly grasping Sherlock's.

"Yes, thanks. Umm.. Well, we must be going. Have plans after dinner and I don't want to be running late for the movie. Good to see you again." John smiled and excused himself and Sherlock as they slipped past Mycroft and into the restaurant. "Well that was nice." He laughed as they sat down in the booth. Sherlock wasn't as amused by his brother's presence, but smiled anyway. He hated how his brother always seemed to know where they were. It drove him mad how Mycroft was always one step ahead of them when they went out, but showing up while he had John out for their first formal date.. That was just rude.

* * *

After dinner, Sherlock and John took the tube across town to the cinema, and Sherlock picked up the tickets he'd reserved earlier while he was out. He met John at the concessions, and paid for the popcorn and sodas, then carried them for him as they went to their seats. Just as the lights dimmed and the film began to play, Sherlock put his arm around John's shoulders. John looked over to him, and shuffled a bit in his seat until they were snuggled tightly together, both captivated by the story playing on the screen in front of them.

"Wow.. That was awesome!" John stretched and stood up as the lights came on, taking the empty popcorn bag from Sherlock so he could slip his coat on.

"I'm glad you liked it. Ready to go then?"

"Sounds good. Home, sweet home." John wrapped his arm behind Sherlock, as they left the cinema and made their way back to the tube and then home.

* * *

Once inside their flat, Sherlock sat down on the armchair and unbuttoned the top of his trousers. "I'm still full from dinner. That was great lasagna. How did you like the date, John?"

"I had a wonderful time. Can you come here a moment?" He called from his room. Sherlock stood and walked to the bedroom door. As he pushed it open, he found John standing in the middle of the room, wearing only his black dress socks. "I really had a great time." John stepped towards him, making Sherlock's heart race. "I'm ready.. If you'll have me, I mean." Johns words gave Sherlock chills from his head straight through to his feet, making a quick stop at his eager cock. He was already hard, just from the sight of his lover's skin in the moonlight, soft and wanting to be touched. As he closed the door behind him, he felt John tug at his shirt. He turned and let him undress him, slowly slipping his shirt off, then unzipping his trousers, letting them fall to the floor.

"John.. Are you sure?" His voice quivered, as he sat on the edge of the bed, still mesmerized by every little touch as John climbed onto his lap and kissed his throat.

"As sure as I'll ever be. I love you.. I want you. Now.. please.. Mm.." He moaned against Sherlock's shoulder as he felt Sherlock's waiting cock press against the back of his thigh. He pushed Sherlock down onto his back, then slid down his chest, kissing each nipple and teasing them with his teeth.

"John.. Ohh.. Yes.. yess.. Mmm.." Sherlock watched as John slid down further, kissing just below his waist before taking his cock in hand and licking the tip softly. His whole body ached and trembled, and he felt his hips begin to rock upwards with each slow, graceful movement John's mouth made. He arched and grabbed at the sheets, just as he felt a heat rising low in his gut. "J-j-john.. Ohhh.. I.. Its.. mmm..." he growled and his body jerked about slightly, then went completely still as John released him and crawled back up the bed.

"I take it that went well?" John looked down at Sherlock, then smiled and kissed him passionately, threatening to make Sherlock's already pounding heart explode. He pulled back, and bit his lip gently before asking shyly, "My turn now?"

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**My fingers have cramped up, and I haven't had any dinner yet so all I'm going to say is I hope you like the chapter and let me know what you think! **


	6. Chapter 6

**I swear this is the last one I'm posting tonight. It's about 1:30 am here, and I have to get some kind of sleep. Ok, so anyways, this one is two days after the "date", and I was going to bring Moriarty into it, since all good stories have to have some catastrophe. But I was like, eww.. moriarty.. *gag*. So I've based the catastrophe off something that I know all too well. Thats all I'm saying other than as always, R&R, and I own nothing. Not even my sanity anymore, thanks to John and Sherlock who have invaded my dreams with story ideas. :D**

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::TWO DAYS LATER::

John walked up the hall, then sat in the cold, plastic chair. He fiddled with his phone for a moment, then stood up and walked back down the hall, peeking through the small window on the door. He turned and leaned against the wall, his head bouncing off it over and over. Then, without warning, he straightened up, and marched towards the desk at the other end. "Excuse me.. Miss?"

"Yes?" The woman hissed back. She was older- maybe fifty or so- and her hair was bunched in curls ontop of her head. Her makeup was thick. Too think, in John's opinion, with bright pink eyeshadow nearly wrapping around to her ears. He was already upset, and unbelievably irritated, but this woman's demeanor and appearance grated his nerves further.

"Any word yet? Its just.. Its been over an hour and I was wondering-"

"When the doctor wants you to come back there, IF he wants you too, that is, he will send for you. Now I suggest you have a seat and be patient." She scoffed, then turned back to her computer and started typing again.

"So that's it? That's all? What the bloody hell is your problem? How hard is it to get off your arse and go look in on him! Damn it all.." John bellowed, causing everyone else around the nurse's station to stare at him with shock. "What are you all looking at? He could be dying in there and this... this.. thing here won't even call back to see what's going on! AARGH!" He slammed his fists onto the counter, and stalked off to his chair again, folding his arms over his chest and grunting in frustration. Just as he began to calm down, John heard a familiar voice that made him jerk suddenly.

"John.."

"Oh! Sherlock. Thank goodness! You're alright. Oh.. oh no.." John stared at Sherlock, who was seated in a wheelchair, with an enormous blue cast covering his right leg clear up to the thigh.

"John.. The bastards cut my trousers. They destroyed a perfectly good pair just to look at my leg, John! Doctors.. I swear.." He smiled up at John who was now taking over pushing the wheelchair out of the emergency wing as Sherlock began his ranting. "And it took twenty minutes just for the idiots to find me a set of crutches. Then, they asked what colour cast I wanted.. Like I'm five years old! Why does the colour matter, honestly? It could be.. magenta for all I care! And this script.. pshh.. These pain pills they've written for are rubbish. A child would get no relief from them, not that I'm concerned with pain relief. John, are you alright?" Sherlock took a deep breath and finally quieted down.

"I'm just glad you're okay. I was so worried."

"It's only a broken leg, John. What, did you think I was going to die in there? And you call yourself a doctor.. really," He chuckled as they waited for Lestrade to bring his car around. As he parked along the curb, John opened the back door and Sherlock stood using his crutches for stability. As he sank down onto the back seat, John held his cast, supporting the extra weight so Sherlock could slide along the seat easily. "Thank you, John." He said softly as John shut the door and took the wheelchair back to the foyer.

* * *

"Two more, Sherlock. Almost there. Come on." Lestrade said, trying to help the detective up the steps into the flat. John was on the other side of Sherlock, holding his crutches and the bag from the drug store, supporting Sherlock with his shoulder the best he could while laughing uncontrollably. Once inside, Sherlock made his way to the sofa on the crutches, tripping a little over the mess of books and papers strewn about the lounge. As he sat down, he heard John and Lestrade talking in the kitchen.

"Thank you for helping. You didn't have to do this, you know."

"John.. He was hurt working a case for me. I feel its kind of my responsibility. I am so terribly sorry for all this. If you need anything.. Anything at all, you have my number."

"Thanks. Stay for tea?"

"No, no. Sadly, something like this requires a ton of paperwork. Probably be at the office late. Have a good night, John." Lestrade left the kitchen and called good-bye to Sherlock, who was flipping through channels on the telly and cursing the lack of 'intelligent programmes'. John heard the click of the door latching as Lestrade left, and he rushed out to the sofa.

"Sherlock. I was so scared. Anderson called, and said you were hurt. Then I called Mycroft and he already knew and he sent Anthea to take me to Bart's and we got there but you were already with the doctors. And they wouldn't tell me anything, you know. The woman at the desk was so rude and didn't care and I was so angry and scared and I didn't know what was wrong, just something happened to you, and I wanted to see you so badly but I wasn't allowed and.. I love you so much! Don't do that ever ever again, okay? Please!" He flung his arms around Sherlock, sobbing softly. John raised his head, and Sherlock placed a kiss on his cheek, then wiped his tears away with his sleeve. "So.. Sherlock.. How exactly did you break it?" He mumbled, pointing at Sherlock's leg.

"Victim was found on the roof of his garage, no ladder that the killer could have used to get down, so I suggested he'd jumped. Lestrade said that kind of jump would kill a man, which I said was nonsense, and decided to prove to him that the killer could have survived. I didn't count on that little rock being where I landed though. If I had jumped just a half meter to the right, I'd be just fine. Foot landed on that rock and threw me. They said I broke the tibia in two places, cracked my knee cap and tore a few ligaments. Damn rock." Sherlock yawned, and looked up at the clock. It was only seven, but he was completely knackered and ready for a good nights rest. "John, would you.. " His voice trailed off and he nodded to his cast. "Umm.. I'm tired John. I think I need to go to bed. Can you.. maybe.. help me?" He whispered.

"Of course. Let's get you into your room." John stood up and helped Sherlock steady himself, then followed him into his room.

As Sherlock sat on the bed, John pulled open the wardrobe and took out a set of pajamas, then tossed them onto the bed. He turned around to see Sherlock wrestling with the remnants of his trousers, trying to get them over the bulky blue cast. John stooped down and looked at Sherlock, fighting to suppress his laughter. "Sherlock.. There's hardly anything left of those. Why don't we just cut them off?"

"Fine. But.. Just.. let me, okay?" John walked out to the kitchen and returned with a pair of scissors. Sherlock took them and cut the side seam of the trousers, freeing his leg as he tossed the material to the floor. John took to dressing him, slipping his pajama bottoms over the cast gently, then letting Sherlock wrap his arms around John's neck to hold himself up while John pulled the pajamas up to his waist. Once seated again, John finished putting Sherlock's pajama top on and buttoning it up, then stood and left the room.

"John? Are you coming back, John?" Sherlock called as he sat up against the headboard and pulled the covers over him. John walked back in, carrying a tea tray with two hot cups of tea and a pill bottle.

"Tea and.. this." John said, handing Sherlock his cup and two small, white pills.

"What are those?"

"Pain pills. Oxycontin. Take them and shut up," He chuckled as he sat down beside him, sipping his tea. Sherlock stared at the pills, rolled them around in his palm, sniffed them, then finally tossed them into his mouth and swallowed them with a sip of tea.

"Ick.. blah.. Terrible. They'd better do something for having tasted that horrible!" John sat back, and Sherlock picked up a book off the bedside table and opened it to the middle. Just as John felt himself drifting off, there was a knock at the door to the flat. He walked out of the room and across the lounge, then opened the door to find Molly on the other side.

"John! How is he? Is everything okay? I heard what happened and I was so worried. They'd released him by the time I went for dinner, so once my shift ended I came straight here. Can I come in?"

"Erm.. sure. Come on it. Here, let me take that." John reached out and took Molly's coat from her.

"Where is he?"

"In bed, but awake. Follow me." John led Molly back to Sherlock's room, and stopped in the doorway. "Sherlock. Your first visitor is here." He stepped to the side, allowing Molly to slip past him and over to the bedside.

"Oh! Sherlock.. you poor thing! How do you feel? Anything I can do?"

"Shoot me.." he grumbled, then glanced over at John, giving him the _what-were-you-thinking _look as Molly looked over his cast and fussed about with his blankets. "Molly.. Molly. I'm fine, really. John's taking good care of me. Did you get new earrings?"

"Yes... um.. I did. They were a gift, from Jim. Do you like them? Are they too much?" She tugged at the small gold hoops lightly.

"Gold's not your metal. Silver would have been better."

"Oh.. oh.. Well, I guess I should be off now. Getting late and I have the day shift tomorrow. Take care, Sherlock." Molly brushed past John on her way out, nodding a silent goodbye, then letting herself out of the flat, slamming the door behind her.

"That was rude, Sherlock."

"I know. Her just showing up here all hours of the evening like that. How rude." He said sarcastically.

"Not her. You! Poor thing likes you and you insult her like that. That was just mean."

"Made her go away, didn't it? She's nice enough, but I don't want fussed over right now. I want you and sleep. Come to bed."

"Fine. But tomorrow morning, you get on the phone and call her up to apologize. Lie if you must, I don't care, just make it right." John crawled under the covers as Sherlock reached over and shut off the bedside lamp.

* * *

Sherlock woke up around eight, and reached over to the bedside table for his phone. He looked up Molly's direct line at the morgue, and pressed send. It rang a few times before she picked up, and the chipper tone in her voice at such so early in the day made Sherlock want to hang up immediately.

"Molly. Its Sherlock."

"Oh. Hi. How are you?"

"Fine. Look, I wanted to call and uh.. apologize.. for last night. I was rude and mean and the earrings looked fine. Have a nice day." He hung up the phone and looked over to see John staring at him, grinning widely. "Happy now?"

"Very." John kissed him and sprang from the bed, then dashed out to make breakfast. Sherlock got up and onto the crutches, then hobbled his way out to the sofa, where he flopped down and turned the telly on. As he searched the channels for something worth watching, John emerged from the kitchen with cereal and coffee. "Coffee today. Had my fill of tea. Wheat-a-bix alright? We're out of.. well, everything else."

* * *

**Hope you've enjoyed this one! You know what to do.. xoxo**


	7. Chapter 7

**Ok, chapter seven. As always, please R&R and I don't own anything. Let me know what you think! :D**

* * *

"Sherlock! Mrs Hudson will be up to keep you company. I'm off to Tesco. Anything you want picked up?" John called from the kitchen. He stepped into the lounge just as Sherlock threw a paper aeroplane his way. It glided through the air and bounced off John's nose, making Sherlock laugh genuinely.

"Oh..Ah-ha.. hmm.. That was a great shot! Oh, Tesco, you said? No, nothing I'm wanting." He reached over to the coffee table and picked up another sheet of paper, and began folding it into another flying nuisance.

"Fine then. I'll be back later. Please don't do anything stupid."

"John. You know me. I don't do anything stupid.." Sherlock mocked as he tossed the paper aeroplane into the air, aiming right for Gromit's eye. It glided in and stuck in the empty hole, earning a cheer from Mrs Hudson who was just entering the flat.

"Sherlock.."

"Yes, John?"

"Stupid.." John said dryly, pointing at the blue cast propped up on a stack of encyclopedias as he walked out of the flat.

"Love you too, dear," Sherlock called after him. "Good morning Mrs Hudson. Here, lets have a contest!" He passed her some paper as she sat down in the armchair to his side.

"Oh, dear. I can't. Its been.. far too many years!" She giggled softly, thinking back to her childhood and all the little games she played when the Headmistress was out of the classroom. "I suppose I could try.. for old times' sake."

* * *

John carried his basket of groceries up to the self-scan machine, cursing it under his breath. "Damn things.. I hate you, you know that?" As he slid the bread across the scanner, the machine beeped and began its evil barrage of what John felt were insults to his intelligence. "I know! Shut up! Damn it!" He growled as it told him for the third time that nothing was in the bagging area. "I might not be the great Sherlock, but I damn well can see the bread sitting right there!" One by one, he slowly managed to scan everything and finally slid his card through, earning a 'please try again' from the metal beast.

"Hey. Mister. Hurry it up, will ya?" The woman behind him tapped her foot impatiently, checking her watch over and over.

"Sod off, lady." John went back to paying for the goods, and once it finally accepted his card, he took his bags and stalked off, unsure of who had won. On his way home, he noticed one of Mycroft's black cars following him. He stopped and waited for it to pull alongside him. The door opened, and Anthea motioned wordlessly for him to get in. John set the grocery bags on the seat between them, and closed the door. "How nice of you to give me a lift home."

"Uh huh.." Anthea said, never taking her eyes off the screen of her Blackberry.

As they pulled up to 221B Baker Street, Anthea handed John a file, and nodded goodbye to him.

* * *

"What.. the.. bloody hell! Mrs Hudson, I asked you to keep an eye on him, not ENCOURAGE his behaviour! Damn!" John stepped over the pile of paper aeroplanes and squeezed into the kitchen past the knives sticking into the wall. "What exactly were you doing?"

"Well, dear, Sherlock and I were having a paper plane throwing contest, then he decided to make it interesting. He was so bored, and I felt bad so I got the kitchen knives. I'd throw a plane and he'd throw a knife to see if he could pin the plane to the wall. I must say though, I haven't had this much fun in years!"

"Thats just great. You can go now. Thank you." John grumbled as he put away the cereals and pasta in the cupboard. "Sherlock.. Sherlock?"

"John. I need help!"

John dropped the box of macaroni he was holding and ran into the hall, where he found Sherlock standing outside the bathroom. "What's wrong?"

"I need a bath. Smell me. I stink!" Sherlock raised an arm, offering John a smell of his armpit. John put his hands out, pushing Sherlock's arm back down.

"Well, get in there then. Let me get you some clean pyjamas and I'll be right in to help you."

John went into Sherlock's room and got out a silky grey pyjama set, then returned to the bathroom. "Here. I'll run the water, you get undressed. You're going to have to use the tub, you know. Can't get the cast wet." He turned on the water and set it to a good temperature, then went about helping Sherlock ease into the tub, using the side to prop up his leg. He tossed a wash cloth into the water, and leaned back against the wall.

"John.. can you wash my back? I'm rather itchy."

"Fine.. Lean forward." John lathered up the rag, then began washing Sherlock's back and shoulders. Sherlock let his chin fall to rest on his chest, moaning softly as John rubbed the soapy cloth over the back of his neck. "Feel better?"

"Much." Sherlock said as he reached around and pulled John over, dragging him into the tub with him.

"Sherlock! What are you doing?" John squealed as he splashed about, trying to get out of the tub. He stood up and looked down at Sherlock, who was grinning ear to ear at him.

"Oops.. Now you're all wet. Damn. I guess you'll just have to get out of those wet clothes now. Before you catch cold. Right?"

"Yeah, I guess so." John stripped off the soaked clothing, then slipped into the tub behind Sherlock. "You know, you're a spoiled brat. You know that right?" He said as he poured shampoo into his hand and started working it into the dark, messy curls on Sherlock's head. He massaged it through, and pulled Sherlock's head back as he took a cup from the tub side and began rinsing the shampoo out.

"Ahh.. Can we do this all the time? So nice.." Sherlock cooed, his eyes closed enjoying the feel of the warm water running down his face and neck.

"Only until your leg is out of that cast. Sit up." John wrung out Sherlock's hair and went to washing himself awhile.

"John.. You know those pain pills?"

"Uh-huh.."

"Can you get them refilled tomorrow? I've only a few left."

"Uh-huh.. Wait.. There were twenty in the bottle last night. And you only get two every six hours... so you should have..." John sat silently, going over the maths in his head. It had been seven hours since they woke up, meaning he should have only taken four pills yet for the day. "There should be sixteen in there. That's enough to last until Monday morning. What happened?"

"I had pain.. and it hurt.. So I took extra while Mrs Hudson was in the kitchen."

"How many extra?"

"Oh, what does that matter? All I care is that they need refilled tomorrow!"

"It matters because you could overdose!" John exclaimed, standing up out of the tub and wrapping himself with a towel. "If you won't tell me, I'll just check. Damn it, Sherlock. You're like a six year old, you know that?" John rushed to the lounge and grabbed the pill bottle from the coffee table. He opened it to find seven pills left. Sherlock had taken nine extra pills while he was gone.. _How is he still awake, let alone breathing.. My god.. He could die from this.. Damn it.. _"Sherlock!" John rushed to the bathroom, to find Sherlock sitting on the tub side, drying himself off with John's wet shirt.

"I'm just fine John. Really. I just.. can't seem to get dry. Why can't I get dry?" Sherlock's pupils were enormous when he looked up at John.

"Because that's not a towel. Here." John pulled a towel from the rack and dried off the stoned genius, then helped him into his dry pyjamas. Once they were both clothed, he helped him into the bedroom and got him settled under the covers. "You stay right here. I'm going to get you some tea and some dinner. I'll be right out it the kitchen, okay?"

"Yes. Kitchen. Right. Can you bring me Gromit? I'll be lonely while you're gone.. He's so nice to talk to. He told me about his Mum, you know. How she made little cookies shaped like Father Christmas around the holidays... Do we have any cookies, John?" Sherlock's head lolled to the side as he spoke, indicating to John that he was absolutely stoned out of his skull.

"I'll bring Gromit.. and I think we may have some cookies. I'll check. Just STAY PUT!" John left the room, shaking his head and wondering weather to laugh it off or be angry at Sherlock for taking so many pills without asking.

* * *

A few hours later, John looked at the clock and decided to go look in on Sherlock again. He'd been discussing physics with Gromit the last time, and had growled at John when he opened the door. John rose from his seat on the sofa and set down the file Mycroft had sent with Anthea, then made his way back to Sherlock's room. He knocked softly then stuck his head in, hoping not to be growled at again. Sherlock was sitting with his back against the headboard, chin against his chest sleeping soundly with Gromit resting in his lap. John tip toed into the room and gently took Gromit away, placing him on the bedside table before tucking the covers in around Sherlock's waist and shutting off the light. He left the room, pulling the door closed behind him, then sank back down onto the sofa. Just as he was settling down with his laptop, his phone lit up. He looked over and saw there was a new text, so he picked it up and pressed a button, then read the new message.

_Come back._

_S.H._

John sighed, and put his laptop away, then went back to Sherlock's room.

"Yes?"

"Come to bed."

"I will. I want to work on my blog first."

"Please?" Sherlock gave him a look that instantly melted John's heart. He closed the door and crawled into bed, letting his blog and the mess in the lounge wait until morning. "Thank you." Sherlock turned to face John, and kissed him softly. He pressed against John's side, and the reason for his pleading became soon apparent.

"What about your leg?"

"That's not my leg, John."

"I know that. I meant the broken leg. I don't.. what if I hurt it somehow?"

"You won't. Just trust me."

"I hate it when you say that." John whispered into the darkness, as Sherlock disappeared under the covers, his cast hanging over the edge of the bed. "Oh.. mm.. I.. I.. Ahh..." John tried to think of a word, just one word to say as Sherlock took him into his mouth. "I.. uhh.. ahh.. I guess.. mmm.. ohh.. my turn?" John's breathing became erratic, and his heart raced in his chest as he felt his eyes roll back and his entire body became stiff. He groaned and jerked about, then at the last second he cried out Sherlock's name, just as he felt his release. As He lay there, breathing heavily and completely relaxed, Sherlock crawled ontop of him, and John could feel his excitement. He slowly pressed against John, threatening to enter him, as John squirmed about as thought to escape.

"Good?"

"Very.. what are you doing?"

"Nothing..." Sherlock said shyly, just as he slipped inside John, sending searing waves of pain and pleasure through him at once. John cried out and tried to back away, but it was no use. He let himself relax and soon enough, Sherlock collapsed onto him, panting and completely satisfied.

* * *

**Ooh.. there was more smut. And what's with the file from Mycroft? Hmm... I guess you'll just have to read chapter eight and find out, huh? **


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8! It's a little shorter than I'd wanted it to be, and frankly explains nothing about the mysterious file.. Or does it? *Evil grin* Anyways, tomorrow is Thanksgiving, so I won't be posting anything new until friday night at soonest. As always, R&R, and I own nothing but my warped little mind and the plot. **

**Afterthought! Just letting you all know, I'm attempting a Sherlock/BtVS crossover fanfic. There's only one other out there that I've see thus far, so I felt I had to take on the challenge. Should have chapter 1 of that up tonight. **

* * *

Sherlock stumbled out of bed, supporting his weight on his crutches. As he walked into the kitchen, something caught his eye. He backed up a step, and poked his head out of the doorway, where he saw the door to the flat hanging open. As he started back towards the bedroom to wake John, the light on the desk clicked on and a tall, menacing man stepped forward.

"You. You're to come with me. Quietly." The man motioned towards the open door, where two other bulky men appeared.

"Over my dead body.. John!" Sherlock screamed, causing the first man to run at him suddenly. Just as John emerged from the hallway, he saw the blue cast disappear down the steps and out of the flat.

"Shit.. No... Damn it!" John slammed his fist into the wall, cracking the plaster and splitting his knuckles open. He raced down the stairs, and out to the pavement, just as a dark blue sedan tore off down the street. John hailed a cab, and instructed the driver to follow, then took out his phone and called Mycroft.

"Good morning, John. How's my brother's leg today?"

"Kidnapped, you arse! What have you done with him? This is getting outrageous Mycroft!"

"Kidnapped? What are you on about? I am not that... low, John. Kidnap my own brother.."

"Well, if it wasn't you... Who did? Look, I'm following them now, but we might lose em'. Can you send someone?"

"On their way now, John. I'm terribly sorry. After I saw you two out on that 'date' I decided to give you a little more privacy. That, it seems, was a mistake."

"Just help me get him back, damn you." John hung up the phone and watched the speeding car ahead of them. He could see three men, and in the middle back seat was Sherlock, stuck between two of the kidnappers. John pleaded with the driver to go faster, but traffic was picking up and it became obvious they would lose sight of the car soon. Just as the car skid around a corner and down an old alley, John heard a helicopter overhead. It was Mycroft's men, and they were right over the car. "Come on.. damn it.. come on.." John whispered as a rope ladder lowered beside the car, and an agent slid down, kicking the window out and shooting the two men in the back seat with Sherlock. Sherlock crawled through the window, grabbed the ladder and was pulled up to safety inside the helicopter. John exhaled, realizing he'd been holding his breath since Mycroft's men had appeared. The dark car sped off, and John decided to follow. As they whipped around corners, and flew through dank, littered alleys, John could see the remaining kidnapper briefly. He knew that face, but couldn't place him. It was someone he was sure he'd met before, and he had to know who. Finally the car ahead of him came to a sudden stop, and the driver jumped out, taking off on foot. John struggled to keep up, but finally tackled the kidnapper.

"Please.. Please.. I was just following orders!"

"Who sent you?" John growled, holding his service revolver to the man's temple.

"I.. I.."

"Tell me, or you die right here." John pressed the gun harder against the man's head as he spoke.

"I did." The voice came from behind him, and John stood suddenly, startled and dismayed. As he turned, he saw Mycroft standing beside Anthea. "I sent them, John. I hate to have lied to you.. Well, actually, it didn't bother me much. I wanted to see that Sherlock had made the right choice with you. I want my brother to be safe, and so I devised this little.. hmm.. test, shall we say."

"How.. How dare you! He could have been killed! I could have killed this bastard here!" John waved his gun in the direction of the man on the ground. "I can't believe you, Mycroft. Wait.. Yes, yes I can believe you. This was so obviously you.. And you lied to me. For what? Was this fun? Was it.. I don't care what it was, really. I'm going home and if I ever see you come near the flat again.. I'll shoot." John pocketed his gun and stalked off past Mycroft, back to the cab.

"John."

"Don't. Just don't."

"John... Thank you."

John stopped and looked over his shoulder. "For what? Giving you something to do other than sit about the office?"

"For caring so damn much about my little brother, you fool. Can't you see? No one has ever cared for him enough to chase down kidnappers and nearly murder for him. No one, John."

"Oh. Yes, well.. I care. And if you care about him as much as you say you do, let him alone. Understood?"

"Clearly."

John slipped into the cab and asked to be taken home. As they pulled up to 221B, Sherlock was sitting on the front stoop, spattered with blood and shivering.

"John.. I.. I'm.. cold.. brrr..." Sherlock braced himself against the stair rail, and John wrapped Sherlock's free arm around his shoulders. The two hobbled inside, and into the flat where Sherlock collapsed onto the sofa. John rushed about, gathering clean, dry clothes and blankets to warm up the wet, cold detective. "J-j-john... Thank y-y-ou.." Sherlock said as his teeth chattered violently.

"Shh.. Its alright. You're going to be fine. It was Mycroft and his games, but he'll stop now, I'm sure." John finished dressing and bundling up Sherlock, then sat down beside him, using his own body heat to warm his frail, shaking body. Sherlock relaxed against John, letting him caress his damp curls and clean his face with a warm rag. "He actually killed two men just to prove a point?"

"F-f-ake.. No bullets-s-s-s.. fake blood-d-d." Sherlock stuttered as his shivering finally began to slow. "It was a s-s-set up.. I knew it when they threw me into the c-car.. If it was a real kidnapping, they'd have bound me and shoved me into the trunk to make communication with passers-by impossible."

"So.. you weren't actually in any danger..." John's voice trailed off into silence, as he pulled Sherlock tight against him. "I was so scared. You have to stop doing this to me, you know."

"Yes, I'll just wear a big orange sign round my neck that says, 'Please don't kidnap, injure or kill me. Property of John Watson'." Sherlock ran his hands through his hair, then smiled sarcastically. "Brilliant." Sherlock mocked playfully, wrapping his arms around John, returning his death-grip embrace.

* * *

**So, I totally hate this chapter. But, thats just me. I hate most of my work. But you kind folks seem to like it and thats what I care about. XOXO**


	9. Chapter 9

**Sorry for the delay between chapters. Thanksgiving was crazy and really wore me out a bit. Needed a break from thinking, really. Anyways, here it is. Hope you like it.**

* * *

As the rain beat against the windows, John wandered about the flat, picking up bits of rubbish and random books that were strewn about. It had been nearly three months since Sherlock's little accident and he was finally back on his feet and as destructive as ever. John had been keeping a close eye on him since Mycroft's little stunt, and thankfully things had been going quite well. Of course, Sherlock was beyond boredom and Lestrade had no cases that required his assistance yet. It was mundane, mostly. The crimes had become more and more petty, and the murders more sloppy. Even Lestrade was beginning to wonder what had happened to the dark, seedy underbelly of London lately. As John shoved the remnants of an old jumper and some loose papers into the dust bin, he heard the soft padding of Sherlock's bare feet approaching behind him. He stood and turned around, where he came face to face with an ungodly monster, horns coming out of its skull and strange serrated bumps along its chin. John screamed and clambered backwards, knocking over the bin and a chair as he looked for an escape route. The creature stalked him, and John slowly noticed that the creature had costume putty peeling off under his chin. He snagged the mask from Sherlock's face, causing him to shout and wince as it took a number of fine facial hairs with it, due to the adhesive. John held the mask up, and shot a glare at Sherlock, who reached over and pressed his fingers to the doctor's throat. As he stared down at his watch, John slapped his hand away.

"What the bloody hell is wrong with you?" John roared. Sherlock stood silently, staring down at him with a look of pity and amusement. "You.. you could have given me a heart attack, Sherlock. What was this about anyway?" John tossed the mask onto the table and stormed off into the lounge, Sherlock close behind.

"Bored. Thought it might be interesting. Are you really that upset, John?"

"Yes.. I am. You're that bored? Sherlock.. There must be something for you to do somewhere. Call Lestrade again."

"Texted him already. Nothing. Not one case for me. Bored again.." Sherlock stared at the ceiling, then at the cup of pencils on the desk. As he reached for them, John pulled him back onto the sofa.

"Don't. You could put out your eye that way. Then what would you do?"

"I wouldn't be nearly as bored then. Damn.. never mind."

"Lets see what's on telly. Okay?" John turned on the telly, and began flipping through stations until he came across a documentary about some American serial killer. "Here, Sherlock. This programme seems interesting, right?"

"Hmm.. no. Not really."

"Fine." John shut off the telly again, then stomped over to the armchair where he picked up his coat and put it on. He tossed Sherlock his own wool overcoat and scarf, then headed towards the door.

"Where are we going, John?" Sherlock called, hurriedly pulling on shoes and coat then dashing out of the flat after John. As they walked down Baker Street in the rain, John reached over to grasp Sherlock's hand, and pulled him closer to his side.

"Not sure where we're going. We just are."

* * *

The two walked down to the tube station, and boarded the next one to arrive. As they sat together in the dimly lit, somewhat grungy tube car, John heard a small noise come from his partner. He looked over to find Sherlock staring at the floor and tapping his feet. "What now?"

"Nothing. Just.. What's this about?" The thin detective leaned over towards John and rested his head against the shorter man's shoulder.

"I just needed to get us out of that damned flat is all. We're both getting a bit of cabin fever, I think."

"Oh. So where are we headed?"

"How about.. a day trip. Maybe Wales?" John suggested, earning an odd look of annoyance from his companion. "Ireland?"

"John.. really? I'd prefer the flat."

"Fine. Where do you want to go?"

"Hmm.. Home?"

"Away from home, Sherlock. That's the point." John grumbled. He didn't know where to take him that wouldn't be boring, and yet he wouldn't take him home yet. It was looking more and more like a day of just riding the tube to get out of the flat, when Sherlock noticed a pin on the shirt of a young woman seated nearby.

"John.. You enjoy music. Who are the Sex Pistols?" Sherlock nodded towards the woman, and John saw the pin as well. He searched his mind for a way to explain them to Sherlock that would keep his attention for more than a few moments.

"Oh..Um.. Well, Sherlock, I was just a boy then. But I know they aren't together any more really, and the two had odd names. What was it.. Johnny Rotten, and Sid Vicious, I believe. They were banned from the radio for a bit. Only lasted a few years, that band. Why? Are you wanting to hear them play?"

"If their music is anywhere near as interesting as the name, then yes. You could say that." Sherlock studied the woman's appearance, taking note of the dried blood on the tip of her boot and the faded bruise on her jaw. She looked rather menacing, but Sherlock could tell she had a soft-side and to her, from the charm bracelet on her wrist and the cat hair on her pants. She was her Daddy's girl, and loved pets enough that fur all over her clothes didn't bother her at all, meaning both her human and animal family members meant a great deal to her. She was leading a double-life in a way. Her hard exterior was a defence mechanism for the public eye and those who criticised her. But to her family and perhaps a few very close friends, she was shy, loving and mindful of her parents. As they stepped out of the tube and made their way to the stairs leading up to the street, Sherlock turned to John. "So, where now?"

"Will you please try to go more than five minutes without asking that?" John exclaimed, then he pulled Sherlock to him and apologized. "Sorry. Look, you want to hear the Sex Pistols, so we're off to the record shop. Okay?" He leaned up and gave Sherlock a warm kiss before leading him down the way to a small record store just off the main street, in a side alley. As they stepped inside, the music that filled the shop was what you might call oldies, and Sherlock found little about it to be interesting or remotely good. They passed through the aisles, skipping over the country, hip-hop and jazz sections before John located the Rock albums. He looked through the names printed on the shelves, and finally found the Sex Pistols. Sherlock watched curiously as John pulled the album out of the rack, and stuck the bar code under an odd scanner with headphones attached. "There. Put these on." He held up the headset to Sherlock, who cautiously took and placed them over his ears just as a song began. His eyes were wide and John wasn't sure what to call the look on Sherlock's face as he listened intently to the screaming guitar, wild drumming and Johnny Rotten's singing rant about the Queen. As the preview clip ended, Sherlock slowly removed the headset and placed them back on the hook.

"Buy it." He said, before turning on his heel and marching up front where he spotted the young woman from the tube. She was standing beside the counter chatting with the clerk about The Misfits when Sherlock approached. John rushed to catch up with him, but was too late to stop him opening his big mouth. "You're a fake."

"'Scuse me?" the woman snorted, scanning him up and down to see if she could take him.

"You're a fake. The hair is just a cry for attention, yet at home you get more attention than you let on. Thus fake. The style.. if you can call it that is a defence, a way of telling everyone to back off or you might do something about it. In reality, all you'll do about it is cry to Daddy and cuddle your cats while you sob your bloody brains out. The boots, again, defence. I'd be willing to bet the blood on that one is your own, possibly from a kitchen accident, judging by the recent scar to your left hand. You're right handed, so I'd say it was a slip of the knife whilst cutting meat, rather than a fall or attack. Do you tell everyone it's from a pub fight? That some bloke got you with a bottle? And they believe you, because you can hold your own if need be, but only because you have older brothers who taught you to fight. The bridge of your nose and your socks told me that. Wearing a man's socks, yet I see nothing that hints you're attached, thus you live at home with older brothers. Not your father's socks, because if he can buy charm bracelets like that for you, he'd surely have black and brown trouser socks to match his suits. Now, your nose.. Its been broken once, and since we know you're not the hard ass you say you are and you have brothers, it must have been a sibling quarrel, which brings us to the bruise on your jaw. Not from a fist, as the mark isn't rounded enough. Too.. boxy.. counter maybe? Were you drunk and fell on the stairs? Either way, not from a fight." Sherlock finally finished his long, detailed observation, and took a breath. John stood amazed at how Sherlock could go on like that without stopping to breathe until the end, then he remembered the CD he needed to pay for. The young woman was dumb-founded, and simply blinked at Sherlock before slapping him across the face.

"Piss off, ya bastard." She said, then spit on his shoe.

"How lady like.. I won't fight you though. Spit all you'd like." Sherlock said, removing his shoe and cleaning it with a handkerchief. As John handed over the money and grabbed the bag with the CD in it, he saw the young woman take a swing at Sherlock, who skilfully caught her fist and pinned her to the counter. "I said I won't fight you." His eyes narrowed and his voice became so deep that John had to strain to hear him from just steps away. John tugged at Sherlock's sleeve, trying to get him to just let her go so they could leave before any cops arrived. Sherlock dropped the girl's arm, and walked out, saying a rather polite good bye to the confused and startled shop clerk.

* * *

"Hey! Wait, Mister! You there!" The young woman chased John and Sherlock down the pavement, and as she caught up with them, Sherlock stopped and sighed then turned to face her. She stood there, panting to catch her breath and introduced herself more formally. "Look.. Back there. I was just.. you know.. they expect it from me. You.. how did you figure all that out? That was brilliant! I'm Natalie, by the way." She offered a hand shake and Sherlock silently declined. John stepped forward and shook her hand instead.

"Um, yes. I'm John. This is Sherlock. Nice to meet you, Natalie."

"Yeah. Umm.. so what do you two do? For a living."

"I'm a doctor, and Sherlock.. he's a detective."

"Consulting detective, John. The world's only." Sherlock grumbled, becoming rather impatient, which John could easily see. "John, we have to go. Mrs Hudson.. And Gromit?" He elbowed John in the ribs gently to get his point across.

"Right. Must be going. See you around." The two turned and began to walk away, but were stopped yet again.

"If you guys aren't.. you know... Too busy doctoring and detecting.. Maybe we could hang out?" Natalie asked shyly, letting her hardcore persona fade away completely.

Sherlock huffed. "Oh, for the love of-"

"I suppose that would be okay, right Sherlock? We haven't any real plans actually. Just a few things to attend to at home. Come on then." John looked at him with the 'just-play-nice' face that Sherlock truly despised, then nodded for Natalie to follow. Sherlock strode ahead, cursing to himself as the two walked behind him chatting about the CD John had purchased.

* * *

**Ok, so what do you think? I know. Not my best. But I had this idea, and so I went with it. Anyways, as far as Sherlock's lack of knowledge about punk bands, I think its reasonable. If the man doesn't know anything about the solar system, why would he know about the Sex Pistols? And should we keep Natalie around for fun, or have her hang out and never be heard from again? Give me some feedback so I know where to go with this.**


	10. Chapter 10

**01/09/2012 Updated A/N: Resolving the issue of Natalie. Not thrilled with her at all. **

* * *

As the three trudged up the stairs to the flat, Sherlock noticed Natalie seemed far too interested in John for his liking. He thought over how the odd girl was quite intelligent, fairly attractive and just a bit shorter than John. She laughed politely at his jokes, and casually let her hand brush across his more often than one would think necessary, which gave Sherlock a strange, uneasy feeling that she was trying to steal John. _**MY**_ _John_. The only person who he ever truly loved, and who had tended to him so diligently for months whilst he was healing. The only man in the world he'd ever give his own life for, and now this Natalie was trying to wedge herself between them. Sherlock sat down on the sofa, and wrapped his arm around John's shoulder as Natalie flopped onto the armchair.

"Nice place, John. Very.. I like what you've done with the wall there." Natalie pointed to the yellow smiley face full of bullet holes, smiling curiously.

"That was Sherlock. Didn't care for the wallpaper." John patted Sherlock's knee lightly, then stood and walked over to the laptop and inserted the new CD. As he clicked play, Sherlock glanced over at Natalie to find her watching John's every move. He couldn't stand the thought of some.. fake skank... looking at John that way. It was too much to bear anymore. He rose from the seat, and walked over to Natalie who was now staring at John with an evil grin on her face. Sherlock gripped her collar and pulled her up from the armchair. John heard the struggle behind him, and whipped around to see a very angry Sherlock dragging the girl to the door. "Sherlock! What the hell?"

"I'm sorry, John. I won't let her do this." He opened the door to the flat and pushed Natalie out to the stairs, then pointed down towards the front door. "Leave. Now." Sherlock walked back into the flat, then slammed the door and locked it behind him. As he crossed the room to the sofa and sat back down, John stared in amazement and confusion.

"What was that all about? Sherlock?" John shut off the music and walked over to the coffee table. As he stood in front of Sherlock, he noticed a wet streak on Sherlock's face. "What happened?"

"Nothing. Just.. She didn't belong here, John. She's a tramp and just.. I can't even talk to you right now. I'm angry. I'm so angry I let her come here, I'm angry I didn't just deck her one back at that shop.." Sherlock sniffled once, then stood up and walked to the bathroom without a word. As the door clicked shut behind him, he sank down to the floor and stared up at the light bulb in the fixture. He felt so torn. He wanted to lock John away, keep him from the rest of the world so no one could ever try to come between them. But he knew how that would hurt John, and that's the last thing he wanted to do. Ever.

"Sherlock.. Please open up. Talk to me. I wanna know what's wrong. Sherlock?" John knocked on the bathroom door for the third time, when he heard something shuffling about on the other side. He leaned back just as the door opened, and a puffy-eyed Sherlock emerged. "Good lord, Sherlock.. Whats gotten into you?"

"I don't want to lose you.. That's all.. The way she kept looking at you, and how you two were talking and laughing.. It just made me realize how easy it might be for someone like her to come in and wreck everything." Sherlock walked out to the armchair, then sat down, propping his feet up on the coffee table.

"You're not going to lose me. Not to anyone. I promise that." John stood beside him and leaned down, pressing a kiss to his lips. "I'm tired.. Maybe we should just call it a night?"

"Right.." Sherlock said softly, then followed John back to bed. As they lay under the covers, John thought over what Sherlock had said. He had to think of a way to reassure him. _Have to talk with __Mycroft.. First I'll deck him for his little stunt, then ask for ideas.. That should go well.. _

* * *

"Sherlock.. Hey. Wake up. I'm going out for a bit. Maybe a couple hours, okay?" John stood beside the bed, pulling his jacket on as Sherlock rubbed his eyes and sat up.

"What? Oh. Okay. I'll see you later then." He pulled back the covers and climbed out of bed, stretching and yawning as he walked over to John. He wrapped his arms around him, and kissed John on the forehead before walking out to the bathroom. John left the flat, knowing the black car outside was for him, even though he had only asked in his text if Mycroft was busy. As he walked out to the street and slid into the backseat, he glanced back up at the bedroom window. He pulled the door shut, hoping his talk with Mycroft would be productive.

Once he arrived, John was led up to Mycroft's office and ushered inside. He stood facing Mycroft's desk when he heard the door open behind him. John turned around and marched over, clenching his fists. He swung at Mycroft, John's fist connecting perfectly with Mycroft's jaw. John held his fist for a moment, realizing that it hurt much more than he'd expected, while Mycroft held his chin, and nodded. "Very well, John. Good to see you too. What's this about?" Mycroft walked over to his desk and sat in the chair behind it, looking at John with amusement. "Oh, wait. The little test, is it? Still mad about that? Well, I am sorry, John. I should have done something more.. subtle."

"Subtle? How about less dangerous? Or.. or.. not involving kidnapping? Even just not so bloody terrifying! You have no idea, Mycroft." John took a seat across from the insensitive, pompous jerk. "Look, even though I can't think of a single reason to forgive you, I do need to talk to you. About Sherlock."

"Right, I see.. How is my dear brother doing these days?"

"He's afraid someone may come between us, you see.. Break us up. I want to reassure him, but I'm not really sure how."

"Ah, and so you've come to ask my help then? Well, I suppose since its to benefit my little brother I could help you.. Let me think it over a bit, and I'll get back to you with my ideas. For now, though, pay extra attention to him, John. Take him out on the town, buy him a small gift, just stay home and talk all night. Do what you can to show him you're his. Best of luck." Mycroft rose from his seat and shook John's hand before leading him out of the office. John rode home to Baker Street in the same black sedan that had picked him up, and he arrived just as Sherlock was leaving.

"Sherlock! Where are you off to?"

"Taking a walk. Why?"

"Well, I thought we could spend the day together, you know, just us and some cheesy old movies. How 'bout it?" John pleaded with him, hoping to get upstairs soon as it was rather windy out. "Please?"

"Fine. Lets go." Sherlock followed him back up to the flat, and the detective tossed his coat and scarf over the back of the armchair as he walked over to the sofa. He stared at the blank TV screen while John was in the kitchen making a pot of tea to warm them up. Sherlock turned on the telly, then flipped through the channels and shut it off again. He was already bored, and was still rather upset about the previous day's events. John emerged from the kitchen moments later with two hot cups of tea. He set them down on the coffee table and took his seat beside Sherlock, who immediately slid over and laid down, his head on John's lap like a miserable puppy.

"Sherlock. You.. wanna talk?" John ran his fingers through Sherlock's dark, messy curls as he rolled onto his back.

"Where were you this morning?" Sherlock looked up at John, his eyes narrowed.

"Went to have a chat with your brother." John laid his arm across Sherlock's chest, then sipped his tea, careful not to spill it on him.

"That's all? What about?" Sherlock looked at John's hand that lay on his chest, and saw the redness around his knuckles. "Had it out, did you? Finally slugged him for that little game he played a few months back. Very nice, John."

"Yeah, I suppose. He deserved it though." John bent forward and kissed Sherlock. "What he did.. He scared me with that. Though I was going to lose you." John slid off the sofa gently then walked out to the kitchen and put his cup in the sink. When he returned to the lounge, Sherlock was gone. He looked around and saw his overcoat and scarf still on the armchair, so he walked back to the bed room, where he found Sherlock in bed with the covers up to his chin.

"Come to bed John. There's nothing to do, its a terrible day out and I know you haven't been sleeping too well." Sherlock patted the bed, and John smiled as he crawled under the blanket. As they lay there, warm and comfortable together, John realized that Mycroft had helped without trying really. He hadn't stopped John from hitting him, and the blow left the doctor's knuckles red and swollen, which Sherlock had noticed easily.

John closed his eyes, and replayed the discussion on the sofa over and over in his mind, thinking about what he'd said. He had reassured Sherlock right then, without really trying, and it was showing in his mood already. Sherlock pulled John to him tighter, and John sighed softly, knowing he'd have to send a thank you to Mycroft. _That can wait.. _John thought to himself as he heard Sherlock snore softly beside him.

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**So, the 'why didn't John deck Mycroft' issue is now resolved, Natalie is gone for good, and I'm going to start work on the final chapter. Please review if you haven't done already!**


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